Palmares

by Gayl Jones

  There were still others who felt that they already had “prestige of blood” and “civilization” and that the wealth would only enhance their possibilities. One such man was a prosperous black trader, who owned a fleet of canoes and transported things on the Parana and Paranapanema Rivers. When I had first seen him hollowing out tree trunks, making pitch and tar from the sap of certain trees, and thinning wood for sails—working along with the other workmen, I had thought that he was a slave. He seemed very intelligent and “quick” and I had singled him out to converse with still not knowing that he was the owner of everything that I saw and that the others were his workmen. He had said that he had not heard of such a man, but that he had never worked with the miners, but only transported merchandise to and from Minas and also Porto Fez. Still I did not feel he had meant he himself had done this. Even when he began to speak about the “possibilities of commerce” and “the spirit of enterprise and self-reliance” that the mining industry created for free men of vision, I did not feel that this was to be taken personally.

  It was only when he came to “court” me and I refused to go out with him, explaining that I was a married woman, that I learned who he was.

  “Don’t you know who that was?” asked Mariana.

  “Who?”

  “Jaime Carvalho.”

  “Who’s Jaime Carvalho?”

  “A very prosperous man. Do you know what they say of him? That he used to be a Negro but now he’s so rich that he’s not anymore.”

  “Is that good?” I asked.

  “They treat him like a white man,” she said. I said nothing.

  “No one has ever refused him. He’ll give you riches and buy your freedom.”

  “He’s too old for me, and besides, I’m married.”

  “What do you mean too old?”

  I’d forgotten that I was an old woman she was seeing, and that Carvalho was in his late forties, must appear a few years younger than my “fifty years.”

  “Eh, nothing, but I’m a married woman, looking for her husband. Anyway, most such men want younger women.”

  “You might be old, but you’re handsome. Ah, what an opportunity.”

  “Then I give it to you.”

  “Oh, he wouldn’t want me.”

  But what was funny was that he had seen her, and the next time he came there, it was not me but her that he came to see, but still she was disturbed.

  “Why does he like me?” she asked when she returned.

  “Because you’re a very intelligent and kind woman.”

  “But wait till he sees Garimpeira. Just let him see Garimpeira and I won’t be anything.”

  “I don’t think he’s like that,” I said. “He wanted to court me, didn’t he? And besides, there are mulattas everywhere. If he wanted a mulatta . . .”

  “But my face.”

  “You have a very pretty face. And the pockmarks don’t look as bad as you imagine they do. Half the city has them.”

  She seemed more cheerful, but still met Carvalho with uncertainty.

  I do not know how things turned out for them, whether he purchased her freedom and married her, or whether, as she said, he had seen Garimpeira and had taken her to wife. I don’t know. What I remember of that day is stopping to talk with Mauritia’s sister, Capistrana, who fascinated me with her ability for “trading.” If she had not had to turn the money over to her owner she would have made a good sum as a businesswoman, and she was also very “ambitious.” She had the opposite personality of Mauritia who was a private, secretive, sometimes morose and taciturn woman. At least Capistrana’s “public performance” was noisome and gregarious as she solicited town folk and strangers to buy the fish and corn and manioc cakes and chaque that she was selling.

  Sometimes after a purchaser would leave, she would joke and call out under her breath something awful that they had just purchased, pretending that she had sold them “electric eels and piranha cakes” and we would laugh.

  “How much is it?”

  “Eight drams.”

  “Hello, Almeyda.”

  “How many piranha cakes have you sold today?”

  “I’d say several dozen.”

  After seeing her I went to take care of and feed the horse, whom we had constructed a crude shelter for, and I had surrounded with plants to ward off beasts and poisonous insects. Then I had gone back into the town. There was a crowd standing by a public pillory. A Negro woman was being lashed. I asked someone who was the slave.

  “She’s a free Negro. Someone sold some gold to her,” said a woman, who had a bundle on her head. “They’re to give her four hundred lashes.”

  “What did they do to the one who sold it?”

  “Nothing.”

  I started to ask more questions but I couldn’t watch any longer and so departed. But before I could get back to the tavern, two men grabbed my arms. They were constables.

  “What is this? What’s the matter?”

  But they would not reply. They took me roughly to the jail, and put me in the “dungeon.” There was straw on the floor, a dirty hammock, a small window on the level of the street. As horses galloped by or mules passed, the dust flew in.

  “What am I here for?” But I was not told.

  The Interrogation

  I SAT ON THE HAMMOCK, still not knowing why they had brought me here. Had Dr. Rosa, hearing of my more effective cure of Garimpeira, accused me of magic or witchcraft? Was this a witch’s inquisition? They had already kept me here overnight without telling me anything. I had not slept, wondering why I had been brought here. Had they mistaken me for someone else? Did they think I was the one who had sold the gold to the free Negro woman? I wondered when or if they would come and let me know what their charges were against me.

  “Almeyda.”

  I turned and went to the small window. Mauritia was stooping down, looking in.

  “How did you know I was here?” I whispered.

  She also whispered. “Capistrana saw them bring you here. She was afraid, and came and warned me. She thought they would arrest me next. But they haven’t, though I’ve been in plain sight. Why are you here?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “They simply brought me here. They didn’t tell me why.”

  She looked puzzled. “Well, have you done anything that you feel they might have arrested you for?”

  “No. I don’t know,” I said, shaking my head.

  “Is there anything that you want? Is there anything that I can bring you?”

  “No,” I said. “Anyway I don’t want you to get into any trouble.”

  “Do you have your free papers with you?”

  “Yes.”

  She looked at me for a long time without saying anything.

  “You’d better go. I think I hear someone,” I said hurriedly. She left and I rushed back to the hammock.

  Two men came. Paulistas, wearing black trousers, loose white shirts, high jackboots, and broad round-brimmed hats. Their faces were thick with beard and mustache, but one could see the pockmarks on the upper part of their faces. One had brown, hard eyes. The other had blue eyes, squinting, one eye larger than the other.

  “I’ll stick to that, I’ll take my stand on it,” the blue-eyed man was saying to the other one, as they entered. About what I didn’t know. Then they both stood silently, looking at me. The blue-eyed one looked as if he could very easily lose his head about little matters, that he could go mad quickly. The other seemed to be habitually steady, serious. Neither one was there to get me out of my difficulties.

  “Where is he?” asked the brown eyes. I looked at him.

  “Tell us where he is and we’ll let you go,” said the blue eyes.

  “I don’t know who you mean,” I said finally. “Where is who?”

  “You’re Tamarutaca’s woman. Tell us where he and his renegades are hiding. Where is their quilombo?”

  My mouth was open when they said “Tamarutaca’s woman.”

  A woman came in with a buck
et and washed my face and wet the “gray” on my hair, so that it ran.

  “Now tell us you’re not his woman. Why else would you have come into town disguised this way?”

  “Who told you I was his woman?”

  “That’s neither here nor there,” said the brown eyes. “But you admit that you are?”

  “No, I do not admit it. I am not.”

  “Tell us where he is hidden.”

  “Truth and oil are always on top,” said the woman with the bucket.

  “You have nothing to do with this, Verao,” said the brown eyes. “Be gone.”

  “Tell us where the viper is before he bites again.” Blue.

  “You’ll be obliged to tell us,” said Brown.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Eh, his woman does not know his whereabouts. I don’t believe that.” Blue.

  “I’m not his woman and I don’t know anything.”

  “What mission did he send you on?” Brown. “I’d like to flog the cow.”

  “Have patience. Let’s leave her alone for now.”

  “Put her to the sword piece by piece.”

  “Let’s leave her alone and let her ponder that,” said brown eyes. They left, locking the door.

  It was difficult to believe. Who had told them that I was Tamarutaca’s woman? Had Mauritia’s lie followed me from Guilherme’s, and did someone here dislike me and spread that story? I lay down in the hammock, breathing heavily. Then I sat up suddenly and reached into my medicine gourd.

  “I’m not Tamarutaca’s woman,” I whispered as I was working. “It’s not necessary to keep me here. You have enough to do to keep the disturbances from breaking out, the riots, and demonstrations.”

  There was the sound of a great deal of excitement on the street, of rushing, and scurrying off.

  “Almeyda,” Mauritia whispered.

  I went to the window. “What’s going on out there?”

  “The government confiscated the property—slaves and gold of some men who refused to pay the royal fifths. There’s a big protest. The officials are imprisoning a lot of people, running others out of town. The street vendors they’re even after, so Capistrana has gone home. Have they harmed you in any way?”

  “No,” I said. “But I suppose they’re too busy to. I haven’t seen them since this morning.”

  “Did you find out what they imprisoned you for?”

  “It’s crazy. They think I’m Tamarutaca’s woman.”

  “Ah!” She twisted her hands in her hair. “I didn’t think Father Guilherme would go to those extremes. He’s obsessed with him. He must have had someone follow us.”

  “But it’s been a long time since . . .”

  “The smallpox may have kept them all away. Ah, it’s my fault.”

  “No, don’t blame yourself.”

  “What’s that smell?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “It’s nauseating.”

  “Yes.”

  “Look, I’ll come back.”

  “I don’t want to put you in danger.”

  “There’s no danger. It’s all wild now.” She rushed away from the window.

  They came back into the cell.

  “We didn’t forget you,” said the blue-eyed one. “There’s been trouble in the city. It’s over. It’s nothing. But Tamarutaca and his band of rascals are perpetual trouble. A wart on the face of the country. Tell us where the bandit is.”

  “I know no more today than I did yesterday.”

  “I thought by today you would have grown in wisdom,” said brown eyes.

  I was silent.

  “Aren’t you hungry? Is there something you want in exchange for telling us?” He came near me. “What’s that sweet smell?” he asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “It’s a very sweet smell.”

  Blue eyes had his hand on his stomach. “It’s nauseating,” he said. He stood farthest away from me. “I don’t like perfume.”

  “It’s a very sweet smell,” said brown eyes. “And you’re obviously a very sweet woman.” He touched my shoulder. “Don’t you want to stay sweet and tell me the rogue’s hiding place? What part of the mountains or the jungle is he hidden?” He squeezed my shoulder digging his nails in.

  His nails were long and hard and tough and brown. The blood ran onto his fingers.

  “You’re stubborn as a donkey,” he said. “It’s nauseating.”

  Brown eyes patted my shoulder and then wiped my blood on the side of my face and in my hair.

  “I’m going to vomit,” said the other, rushing out.

  Brown eyes patted my shoulder again and said, “Maybe you’ll be wiser tomorrow.”

  He wiped the rest of the blood on my blouse and skirt.

  When they left, I put more of the perfume on, made from the testicles and musk glands of a certain lizard found in freshwater lakes. It has a very sweet smell, but then it becomes nauseating and takes away appetite.

  The next day blue eyes came and read me a story about what was done to someone in a certain history. He didn’t tell me what it was. First the man’s nose was cut off then his ears, then his fingers, his hands, his arms. He kept reading, looking up at me each time, then he held his stomach and ran out. I heard him vomiting.

  “Did you go to the doctor?”

  “Yes, but I still can’t put anything on my stomach.”

  “Engoda,” he called me, staring at me with his hard brown eyes.

  He dug his nails into my scalp and then held his claw in front of my face as if to claw my eyes out, and then as if to claw the sides of my face.

  “Those are some of the possibilities,” he said.

  “Why do you call me ‘engoda’?” I asked, as my scalp stung. The word meant “allurement.”

  “Ah, do you think if the highwayman knows you are here, he will try to rescue you?”

  “Since I’m not his woman that won’t happen,” I said.

  “Won’t he?”

  He tore my blouse away, then stood stunned at my flat, bare bosom. He threw the torn blouse at me and walked out.

  Some while later a man came with keys and released me. The woman, Verao, who was standing outside the door, handed me a cotton shawl.

  “Truth and oil rise to the top,” she said with a laugh.

  “Almeyda,” said Mauritia, when she opened the back door of the tavern. “You’re free, but why did they release you?”

  “I don’t know. I couldn’t tell them anything since I’m not Tamarutaca’s woman. But I can’t look for him here. If I find him, maybe they’ll think he’s Tamarutaca.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going back to the coast.”

  Preparations for a Return

  WHERE WILL YOU GO?” asked Mauritia after we had bid Garimpeira and Mariana goodbye. We left before dawn. Capistrana was setting her wares out for the early miners and men on their way to the smelting houses.

  “When will you come back here?” Capistrana asked her sister.

  “I don’t know. Maybe I won’t.”

  “I’m sorry about your difficulties,” Capistrana said to me. “There’s always some trouble here.”

  “Or you bring it, Manganaa.”

  Why did she call her “rascal,” again?

  Mauritia was silent, then she hugged Capistrana and I said goodbye to her.

  We got our weapons from the hiding place. The musket had gotten damp so would not have fired that day if it had become necessary. We took the horse out of the shed and walked him onto the road.

  “So you’ll go back to Bahia?” asked Mauritia.

  “Yes, and then probably on to the New Palmares, which they say is in Parahyba. If he’s not there, I’ll wait for him there. At least that’s one place we both know.”

  She was silent, then she said, “I suppose that’s the practical thing to do.”

  “But you don’t think it’s a good idea?”

  “I think it’s a good idea. But don’t g
o by me. I hate cities. If I were a man I’d be a Sertanista not a Palmarista. I’d call myself Sertao too, like that man we heard talk, and go to the wildest wilderness, and avoid everyone.”

  I said nothing. I thought of the “explorer” that Luiza had told me about. I wondered why she had never finished his story.

  “He had such plans as the man, Carvalho, the one with the sailing canoes,” I said.

  “Who?”

  “Anninho. But I don’t know the whole story. Maritime trade. But I shouldn’t talk about it. I should have stayed on the coast.”

  “What are you rambling about?” she asked with irritation.

  “Nothing.”

  “How large is the New Palmares?”

  “I don’t know. It’s made of the few that escaped from the Old Palmares. I don’t know how many people have come there or have been captured.”

  “Captured?”

  I explained that some of the new recruits, who refused to come, were captured and taken there. I did not say there had been slaves in Palmares.

  “They rescued me from slavery,” I said.

  “Ah. I thought you had always been a free woman.”

  “Me? No. Why did you think so?”

  “You seem so adventuresome.”

  “No, I’m not really.”

  We rode along the edge of forest that sloped down like a precipice, but was covered with trees and grass so thick that one could not tell how far.